Resolution

I'm not really going to hell after all. Somewhere between heaven and hell is a place for those of us who wander in a steady flow of illusion, wrong directions and uncertainty. That place is called life.

How wonderful it would be to carry out life on a reservation. Rather than a government issued plot of disparaged land rationed out of pity by the ignorant ancestors of those who stole it in the first place, I'm speaking metaphorically of course and of something far more grand. This reservation is purely a mental state, one that toes the line between reality and psychosis, guaranteeing an imaginary yet safe haven for the ill-fated acute consciousness of my existence. To pine away for the truly impossible is more logical to me than holding out for an unlikely probability. At least in the impossibility, there is no disappointment. There is only a constant hum of a never ending melody and a dream never awoken from.

You may brand me a rationalist, where knowledge is based upon pure reason alone, without any empirical evidence or experience needed for verification. Yet I am not claiming these mental sanctuaries offer any source of truth. They simply provide me with the ability to persist within the real world. Yet what is this "real world" I am speaking so nonchalantly of? I could pontificate tediously about theories of the empiricists and their theories of reality, attempting to reconcile Berkeley from Locke and Kant from Hume, yet I will spare my typical, intellectually elitist sermon as it serves no purpose to the current situation at hand. That situation being an intense realization that I feel more contentment inside my mind, my thoughts and my dreams than I do in the arms of another or in the presence of others. Should fate give me the brief exhilaration of experience, I would be a fool not to accept it. Yet such a gift is not enduring, as it is usually incompatible with the world if it should be fancied by my conscious. Soon enough, it fades back into the monotonous humdrum, visible only on some nights, yet always kept at arms length. Somehow I keep allowing it to visit and in my insanity, I keep expecting different results.

How much spite is necessary to abolish this madness before I wither into complete disgrace? An ounce, I suppose would give a stubborn being like myself enough will power to carry through with such resolution. And how comfortable it will be to find solidarity in the fictional creations of my mind, rather than allow real people to ruin my soul.